


the killers in high places (say their prayers out loud)

by violetdivinity



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bondage, Collars, Everything is consensual, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 08:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12295008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetdivinity/pseuds/violetdivinity
Summary: Victor Zsasz finds a better use for Oswald's fancy, leather arm cuffs.





	the killers in high places (say their prayers out loud)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [depthsofgreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/gifts).



> dedicated to [depthsofgreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/depthsofgreen/pseuds/depthsofgreen), who prompted a fic involving oswald's [kinky new arm cuffs.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/9a20ff00141c4f55cc1a1245f937d37d/tumblr_oxczjxrXZY1uh5uaio1_1280.jpg)
> 
> title taken from 'anthem' by leonard cohen.

Oswald bites his lip to muffle his groan, tastes blood on his tongue and moans even filthier.  Behind him, Victor reaches for the second chain on the bed, clipping it into the other belted cuff link on Oswald’s arm.  Oswald’s on his knees, billowy black shirt open and arms forcibly pulled backward by the short chains, making him bow, exposing his front to Victor in a way that makes him blush to his chest.  Victor wolf whistles as he steps forward, admiring his work.

“You look really pretty, boss.”

Oswald hates how he feels himself go redder, how he tilts his head back to expose his collared throat (simple black leather and gold buckle to match the cuffs, Victor’s favorite) like a Pavlovian response in the face of such praise.  Such a simple sentence, but he feels himself begin to sink into a warm, soft nothingness where nothing matters: not the strain in his arms from being yanked backward, not the pain in his bad leg, and not his shame for loving this so much.  All that matters is this –

and the sleek silver knife Victor whips out, as sharp as his smile as he eyes the expanse of Oswald’s bare, pale chest.

“Bet I can make you look even better.”

Oswald huffs a laugh, tilts his head from one side to the next to crack his neck, his gloved fingers clenching behind his back.

“Stop talking and get to work.”

Victor Zsasz is a man who doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first slice of the knife is a sweet little thing, a teasing kiss across the thin skin of his collarbone. Oswald's lips part on a shaky breath as Victor expertly draws the barest amount of blood, nothing more than a small, pearly red necklace befitting the debauched king.

This is foreplay, Oswald knows.

The knife drops lower now, teasing little tickles before the edge dips into his ribs, and Oswald can't stifle a throaty moan as Victor carves three lengthy lines in succession. The sweet, sharp pain goes right to his groin, and Oswald pulls against the restraints contorting his body, trying to get closer to the knife, trying to draw Victor's attention to the fat bulge straining against his pants.

Victor ignores him in favor of cutting thin lines against his soft stomach. Oswald shakes all over, cheeks wet from tears he didn't remember having. He shifts on his knees, seeking to alleviate the ache of his hard dick and the taut pull of his arms, keeping him on display like a beast for the butcher.

Victor finally takes pity on him - but only just. Oswald nearly howls when Victor's free hand goes to the button of Oswald's dress pants, undoing it and the fly easily. A shuffle of fabric, and Oswald's cock pops free, jutting against his stomach, precome mixing with blood. There's another round of fresh tears in his eyes and thank you-s on his lips as Victor drags his tongue across the mixture of fluid, grabs Oswald's hair, and kisses him hard to make him taste himself in the basest of ways.  Oswald all but melts into the kiss, shamelessly sliding his tongue across Victor’s and exploring his mouth, licking up all traces of himself.

When the kiss breaks, Victor pulls back just enough to bite at Oswald’s lips, wolfish little nips that make Oswald hiss at the pleasure-pain.  Victor bares his teeth in a grin that would send tremors down the spine of a lesser man, but only fills Oswald with cloying warmth in his chest that he blames on arousal.  He’d smile in return if he thought he could do anything beyond arch his already bowed back, tug a little at his chains, and beg with his bloody, exposed body for _more, more, more._

Victor eyes him like he’s a fly in the spider web.

The flat press of the knife’s side returns to Oswald’s chest, and Victor goes back to work.

A half dozen more lines are etched onto Oswald’s sides, each expertly made and drawing out quiet little gasps from Oswald, and then, the finishing touch: a large ‘V’ carved into his sternum, the artist signing his work.  When Victor places the knife back on the side table, Oswald’s a mess, blood drizzling down his body and catching on his cock, and he needs to come so badly he can’t even verbalize it, can only shake and blink his wet eyes up at Victor and hope he understands.  Victor runs the back of his hand across Oswald’s chest, grins a little when Oswald whimpers and squirms and rattles his chains.  Oswald wants to shy away from the touch to his raw skin, his nerves on fire, but he _can’t_ , not with the restraints keeping him exactly where Victor wants him.  More precome beads at the tip of his cock at the thought of how he must look, so on display, so ruined, so Victor’s.

“There, there,” Victor sing-songs, brushing his bloody knuckles in a surprisingly gentle caress down Oswald’s cheek, staining the flushed skin with stripes of his own blood.  “Made you real pretty now.”

When Victor wraps a gloved hand around Oswald’s cock, all it takes is a few hard, tight strokes for Oswald to see stars, his near-shout a ragged, broken thing as he pulses white all over the black leather glove and his stomach.

Oswald comes down from the pleasure high slowly, a feather drifting back to earth, and he doesn’t notice Victor move behind him until the chains are undone from his cuffs and his arms uselessly drop to the side.  He groans – in relief, in pain, in gratitude – and mindlessly presses his head against Victor’s coat, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and blood.  Victor allows it, clapping his clean hand on Oswald’s shoulder in a choppy show of affection, or as close to it as Victor ever gets.

Somehow, it’s enough.


End file.
